Point Shot 02 - Game Misconduct (5 page)

“Fuck.”

I rose from my seat, grabbed Mike’s ankles and threw them onto the couch. Then I excused myself, entered the bedroom I shared with Dan, closed the door on the softly snoring drunk and had myself a good old-fashioned cry. Maybe someone had laced the Yukon Jack with estrogen at the distillery. Must be. How else could you credit two full-grown male hockey players losing it in the same night? Fucking people tampering with my whiskey would pay if I ever found out who they were.

“You’re a good boy, Victor.”

I opted not to answer Mrs. Rupert. If she knew what a shit I was, she would evict me. Mansfield hopped around my legs as I picked up the broken branches last night’s storms had dropped in the yard. The silver-gray mutt was all sorts of serious about me petting him. Generally, I would have. Hell, I’d even have tossed a tennis ball, but I was in no mood to be my usual cheery self. My head throbbed, my stomach rolled when I moved too quickly, and my sinuses were still plugged from all the boo-hoo-hoo I had done the night before. Seems sleep would have come easily for me, but no. I’d grabbed about three hours of fitful rest when the voices of my two elderly landlords had entered my open bedroom window at the ass-crack of dawn. I guess if you go to bed at eight p.m., a four a.m. wakey-wake works.

“I’ll just drag them to the curb,” I told the old lady. She gave me a toothless smile. Mr. Rupert was shuffling around picking up twigs. Mrs. Rupert scooped up Mansfield when I reached the gate.

“When is Dan coming home? We miss his sunny smile,” she yelled.

“I do too,” I muttered, then gave her some vague reply before I yanked the two massive limbs through the small gate.

After the cleanup was done I made myself climb the steps to our second-floor digs. Mike was still sleeping it off. I kicked off my shoes and took a shower. When I came out about ten minutes later, Buttonwood was sitting up.

“Don’t speak, okay?” He was cradling his head in his hands.

“Squeezing your skull like that won’t make it hurt less, moron.” I walked into the kitchen and got some coffee perking. “Go take a shower. Don’t use the blue towel, that’s mine. I don’t want your uptight straight germs mixing it up with my sexy bi germs.”

“Talking. You’re talking,” he groaned.

The floor creaked just in front of our bedroom door. The bathroom door shut. I examined the fridge. Well, it was eggs or ketchup. I yanked both foodstuffs out. A frying pan was located. Usually Dan did all that domestic shit. He shopped, he cooked, he washed clothes. Fucker was the sexiest little manservant ever made. I shook off the intense pain caused by the memory of seeing him whistling over a pan filled with perfectly fried eggs.

We had scrambled eggs with ketchup and black coffee. Mike didn’t eat much but he did suck down the java. I ate like a horse.

“So yeah, that camp. I think I’ll go,” I mentioned casually.

Mike’s bloodshot green eyes lifted from his mug to me. “Okay.”

I dug back into my mound of eggs.

“Kalinski, whatever was said here last night goes no further, right?”

“Right.” We didn’t look at each other as we made the pact. Ten minutes later Mike was out the door.

I looked around the apartment and wondered what the hell I was going to do with myself. Dan was always the one who came up with shit to do. I’d always been happy to just be there with him, making love, listening to his funky Canadian accent when he talked and laughing at private jokes.
Ouch.
There was that shiv to the liver again. My phone rang, and for a second my heart rate rocketed. Then I realized it wasn’t Willie Nelson singing
Little Things Mean a Lot
. Drove Dan crazy knowing that was his personal tone. No matter how he bitched about it, I kept it just to make him nuts. Country music was no friend of mine.

I grimaced when I saw it was my lawyer. Did they work on the weekend? Was it the weekend?

“Speak,” I said as I set off to find a calendar.

“Victor, it’s Jim. Can you be at the Cayuga Medical Center today at noon?”

“Yeah,” I replied as I stood in the kitchen. Over on the door that housed a broom, mop and I wasn’t sure what else hung a calendar from the local electric company. I walked over and stared at it. “What’s the date today?”

“It’s the thirty-first. You’ll need to go to the fourth floor and find the labs. They’re expecting you.”

“Right. Labs, fourth floor,” I repeated as I looked for a pen atop the microwave. When I found half a pencil, I smiled, then scribbled down the info. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. Don’t pull a no-show. Also, the team has decided that you’re to begin mandated therapy sessions with the team psychologist as soon as training camp starts.”

I’ll admit to having a small meltdown upon hearing that news. Jim simply hung up on me mid-tirade, which only made me madder. I tried calling Lambert but the pussy hid behind his voicemail. Talking to shrinks about my mother issues is at the tippy-top of the NFW mountain.

“Jesus H. Hairy Christ,” I shouted so loudly Mansfield starting barking in the apartment below me.

It took several minutes of deep breathing to get myself under control. When I had my shit in hand, more or less, I sent Dan a text. This one was not my usual “suck it up” kind of thing. It was just me telling him what he should know. What I thought he would want to hear, even if it hurt. What I prayed he would want to hear.

Doing paternity test today with no BS. Giving Heather what she asks for. I love u–Vic

There was a soft ping not ten seconds after the text had left my phone.

Good. Do right by her. I need more time—Dan

The weepy shit snuck up on me. I reread his message a dozen times, sniffled like a chick reading a Nick Sparks book and nodded at the knowledge that even though he hadn’t said he loved me in return, he also hadn’t told me to go fuck myself with a spatula.

* * * * *

Heather was exiting the lab when I entered it at noon. She looked green around the gills. “You okay?” I asked as we met amid other people waiting to get samples drawn.

“I skipped breakfast,” she whispered, her hand over the crook of her left arm, “I wasn’t feeling well.” She lifted her chin to look at me.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you some grub after I get poked.” Her brow wrinkled. I exhaled dramatically. “Look, I can’t let you starve the kid. Just sit down, put your head between my legs and—”

She snorted. “Oh my God, you’re
such
an asshole.”

I lifted my right shoulder, then steered her to a padded bench beside a water cooler. “Sit. I’ll be out in no time and we’ll get some food into you.”

She eyed me suspiciously but inclined her head. I left her there to tell the nasty-looking admissions clerk who I was and why I was there. She seemed less than impressed by my name. I was less than impressed with her blue eye shadow. I might have mentioned that as I followed the lab tech who had just bellowed my name. When I came out five minutes later missing a couple of pints, Heather was seated where I’d left her. She looked clean and wholesome in jeans and a flowery summer top that showed the swells of her big tits nicely. I was still having issues with the large discrepancy between how she seemed and how the team said she was. Two and two was not adding up to four, no matter how I did the mathematicals.

“You okay?” she asked as she gathered her massive handbag.

“Giving a few vials is nothing. I’m a hockey player. I could lose a nut in the first period and be back on the ice in the second.”

“You are the king of shit-talk, Kalinski,” she said as we made our way to the elevator. She smelled nice. “Thanks for being decent about this. Most men would be pricks, which is why I’m so completely confused by you, the high minister of dickery, being so nice.”

I chuckled as the elevator doors opened. “High minister of dickery. I like that. Where do you want to eat?”

“Anything not fast food sounds good.”

We moved to the back to allow medical personnel and visitors to file into the elevator. Heather wiggled closer to me. I stared down at the top of her head as we went down. Her left breast was snuggly with my forearm. It was nice—soft and warm—and yet my dick didn’t seem to care. Huh.

“I think you turned me gay,” I whispered.

“Thanks. That makes me feel real good about my feminine wiles.”

“Don’t fret. You got plenty to wile with,” I assured her. She seemed to stand a little taller.

I walked her to her car, a green VW bug. “So, there’s a nice place about two blocks from here. A diner with real food, not shit all fried in grease. Want to follow me?”

Heather nodded, and fifteen minutes later she and I sat in the Lakeside Arms eatery, talking. It came to me as we discussed the reason why the Cougars power-play sucked that I’d never really talked with a woman before. Even with Gina. Sure, I’d talked
at
them, or they at me. Hell, upon further reflection I’d never talked
with
anyone before Dan. Before Arou, my relationships had been lots of talking from both parties but no one listening. Dan had taught me to listen to people, to care about what they were saying, or at least pretend that I cared. I guessed that was progress.

Listening to her yabber about her plans for life after graduation wasn’t the worst thing ever. There was something funny about the way she moved her head when she spoke. It bobbed up and down. She reminded me of a puppy in a way. I didn’t bring that up, though. The food was good and filling. We both had the meatloaf special. Heather ate all my carrots, which was cool. Kid needed the veggies, right?

After we said our goodbyes, I drove home, the windows down and Machine Head’s
The Blackening
roaring out of my sound system. I was at a loose end, so I just drove. Home held nothing for me, not really. Not until Dan came back. Maybe I should say
if
he came back. How much time would he need? I wanted to do more, somehow, to get him to forgive me, but I didn’t know what or how. I felt like my life and my future were dangling from a rapidly unraveling rope. There I hung over the pit with no fucking clue what to do next. Maybe letting go would be the best thing to do. If I kept polishing off two bottles of Jack per day, it wouldn’t take too long to lose my grip.

My cell vibrated. I ignored it. The call went to voicemail.

“Hi, Vic, it’s Heather. I just…well, I just wanted to let you know that lunch was nice. Thanks for letting me hog your carrots. I can’t seem to get enough orange vegetables into me.” She giggled. Man, she was such a chick. “I’m not sure if you care about this at all, but the baby just moved for the first time. Well, not for the first time, but this is the first time that I felt it. It was…incredible. I know I made the right choice now. Well, that’s all I wanted to tell you. Later.”

I hit her up with a text reply. I was all out of talk.

Cool.

It was about the best I could do.

She sent me a smiley face in return. Okay, maybe I could hold on a little longer. Someone had to be there for these stupid kid updates. Didn’t look like Heather had anyone else, the poor thing. Relying on Victor Kalinski for emotional support was a death wish for the ticker. Just ask Dan Arou.

Shit kind of got real a week after the whole kid kicking for the first time thing. I’d like to say that I wiped that from my mind with ease. That the knowledge that my could-be kid was rolling around inside someone didn’t haunt me. If I did, I would be lying, and I don’t lie…except to people I love. I am severely fucked up, but that’s not a newsflash.

So yeah, the kicking kid. He or she—I didn’t know what the sex was and I wasn’t sure I wanted to—was more than a concept. I mean, sure, I’d gotten the words into my thick Slavic skull, but the reality? No. That hadn’t come until that kick message. Now it kept popping up at odd times. It would surface when I was showering or watching vapid reality shows on TV. Up it would pop as I shaved or lifted weights at the gym or tried to fall asleep sober. As the hours went by it grew scarier. Kind of like Captain Spaulding, that clownish sick bastard from those Rob Zombie flicks. Kicking Kalinski Kid would appear out of nowhere and scare the living fuck out of me. Which was why I needed a few libations before I buried my face in Dan’s pillow and prayed for sleep. No wonder parents drink.

Kicking Kalinski Kid was the first of several real-shit moments occurring more frequently than was necessary. The next happened when I was taking the recyclables to the curb one night for morning pickup. Mrs. Rupert was tottering around the front yard as I appeared from the side of the house, my arms filled with glass, tin and plastic.

“Nice to see you’re keeping things tidy. Dan hates a dirty house.” She smiled warmly as I passed her tending the potted tomato plant she doted on.

“Yeah, he does.” That had been the only reason I’d cleaned up. Got to keep that hope alive, right? Rope, kid, Dan and all that “hang in there, kitty” shit.

“My goodness, I hope all those empty booze bottles aren’t yours.” Her gaze moved from the box of glass to me. My feet stopped with the forward momentum and I simply stared down at the silver-haired woman. My brain did this weird-assed split down the middle. One side was demanding that I tell her to fuck off. The other side was tapping me on the medulla and whispering about pinched fingers and ass-warmings.

“Nah, found them in the closet. Maybe Dan was going to make candle holders out of them.”

The accusatory look left her wrinkled face. She patted my forearm. “That sounds like Dan. When is he coming home? Mansfield misses him.”

“Soon, I hope.”

I made like Snagglepuss and exited stage right. After the landlady took her little green watering can back inside, I dropped the totes beside the curb and did a fast count. An even dozen. Wow. I reached up to massage the back of my neck. Had I really downed twelve fifths since the reckoning? How much time had passed? A week. Ten days tops.
Fuck.
I started walking. No idea where I was going, just heading west. At the end of the block I paused, turned and looked at the empties of Yukon Jack waiting for pickup. My hand went into the front pocket of my cargo shorts. Dialing happened blindly. I couldn’t look away from the whiskey bottles glinting in the last rays of an early August day.

“Buttonwood, yeah, it’s Kalinski. When does that conditioning camp start? Tomorrow. Fuck. No, yeah, it’s fine. Can I still sign up? That would be cool, thanks. Yeah, I can make it to Wisconsin by noon tomorrow. Hey, thanks for the favor. Nah, it’s good. Later.”

My eyes were starting to water as I put my phone back into my pocket. Fucking sun always did strain my tear ducts. Seemed like a nice evening. Maybe I would go around the block then get packing. The sooner I got out of that empty space I used to share with Arou, the better.

* * * * *

I left at midnight that night. Windows down, Trivium pounding out of the speakers, the steady hum of the road all combined to make the night hours less claustrophobic. The GPS led me along to Wisconsin, the land of
Laverne & Shirley
. Schlemiel and Schlimazel motherfuckers. I had one small side trip planned but that wouldn’t take long. Trivium rolled into Lamb of God, Stone Sour, Flaw, Disturbed, Silent Civilian and my boys in Slipknot. Angry music helped me to think. It kept me centered. It said what I felt. Yeah, rock on, my thrashing metal gods. I stopped once, about five hours into the trip, at a convenience store. I pissed, grabbed a can of Red Bull, a giant-size Snickers and a bouquet of flowers.

About ten hours after I’d left Cayuga in the rearview, I cruised past the Seventh District precinct of the Chicago Police Department wearing a whimsical smile. Oh, the good times I’d had with the men of Chicago’s finest. At one time, when I was around thirteen, walking into the 7th had been like walking into Cheers. Everyone knew my name, but the greetings hadn’t been as warm as Norm’s used to be.

There was no slowing down to admire the old childhood home. I had sold it a month after my mother had died. I’d taken the first offer I got even though it was about ten grand less than the realtor thought it should be. Tough shit, Mr. Commission, it had been all about the get-the-fuck-rid-of-it. There was not one sentimental thing holding me to the land of the blue lights, as I liked to call my old neighborhood. I pulled into the Oak Woods Cemetery in Woodlawn and slowly drove past old mausoleums and headstones. I didn’t turn the tunes down. Dead people like metal. Proven. Fact.

I had to stop at some office to get directions to her plot. If you think that should have made me feel bad, it didn’t, not really. Why would I pretend to be the loving son now that she was dead? Fuck that hypocrisy. She and I, we both knew where we stood with each other.

She’d been buried next to a maple tree. I stared down at the plain marker, the flowers in one hand and the last bottle of Yukon Jack from under the kitchen sink in the other.

Doris Jean Kalinski

1961—

I guessed the engravers hadn’t been back out to put the year of death on the stone. The sounds of the city filtered into the huge cemetery. I twisted the cap off the bottle of Jack and dumped the whiskey over the new headstone.

“Baptized by that which took your life,” I muttered as I doused the marker. When the whiskey bottle was empty, I plucked a long-stemmed daisy from the cheap bouquet, slid the thin stem into the bottle, tossed the rest of the wilted flowers to the ground and dropped down into a crouch. “You almost did it,” I said, and placed the unique vase by the cement pad that held the stone. “You almost made me like you. I saw those bottles,
Ma
, and I knew it was time to nut up or shut up, to quote Tallahassee. I got this maybe-kid coming,” I told her as I adjusted the bottle. A soft wind blew the stink of Chicago under my nose. “I don’t want him to have a drunk for a parent even if I am just a sperm donor. So thanks for the whole carrying me nine months and birthing me song and dance.” I glanced around the cemetery. “I won’t be back.”

I rose from the crouch, dusted off my hands and walked to my car. Didn’t once look back, because I didn’t need to. I’d said what I wanted to say. The drinking stopped now—today. There were some things I’d like to pass on to the kid. My nose, because long, pointed Polish noses rock. My ginger locks and pretty hazel eyes. My engaging personality, and my skills with skate, stick and puck. There would be no drunken beatings for pinched fingers, muddy shoes or a hidden kitten. No way in fucking hell was I putting any kid through that shit. I wouldn’t put a dog through that. If the kid was mine, of course. Known fact that women hurt you every chance they get.

I slid into the Escalade, eyed the bottle with the daisy, then cranked over the engine. I had shit to do. Later, Mom, it’s been real and it’s been nice. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

* * * * *

“Fuck yeah,” I said as I pulled into the Capri Lake ice rink in beautiful Capri Lake, Wisconsin, with thirty minutes to spare before the noon cutoff. “I am one lean, mean motherfucking driving machine.”

I couldn’t wait to get back on the ice. It would suck, hurt and make me say bad words, but the punishing program would have me dropping weight, building muscle and impressing someone enough to give me another contract. I hoped. After parking, I scanned the lot for familiar cars among the many vehicles. Weird that I didn’t recognize any of them. Then it came to me. Probably most of the team had flown and had rentals. I patted the steering wheel of my Caddy. Screw that wild blue yonder bull. I’ll keep my big feet on terra—

My stomach twisted violently when I saw Dan’s Jeep parked by the doors. Panic overwhelmed me, which made no sense at all. I’d been mourning the loss of the man for weeks, praying to whoever listened to jerks with “ski” on the end of their names that I’d get to see him again. Now that he was here, I was seriously thinking of slamming it into reverse and driving off.

“You fucking pussy-ass,” I snarled at my reflection in the rearview. I threw my door open, sucked in a lungful of clear air, then stalked into the rink like I fucking owned it. Why had he driven? Where was he? Did he hate me? Why hadn’t I worn something nicer, got a haircut, shave? I stopped dead just inside the doors. That shit needed to stop. “Get it the fuck together, Kalinski,” I whispered to myself.

“About fucking time you showed up. I was afraid my newest copy of
One Thousand Polish Jokes
would go to waste.”

I looked to the left and saw not only Mario waving said joke book in the air, but the majority of the Cougars. Standing amid the throng was Dan. He glanced in my direction.

My mouth went dry and my heart raced. He looked good. Tanned and fit, he filled out the black jeans and gray Cayuga Cougars T-shirt amazingly. Mrs. Arou had fed him well. His black hair was a fucking mess, all tangled-looking and dangling in his eyes. His flow would be epic. I wanted to be inside him yesterday.

The pained, distrustful look he gave me killed any carnal fantasies instantly. He looked away, returning to his conversation with someone I didn’t know.

The man he was speaking to was taller than Dan, but anyone over Dobby-the-house-elf stature was taller than Dan. He was probably my height, maybe a few inches shorter. He wore his dark hair buzzed to his scalp and had the physique of a fellow puck-pusher. They seemed to be very familiar, speaking and laughing with ease. The need to either vomit or punch the dick who was chatting up my man in the throat grew inside me like a wildfire. Somebody slapped my back, hard. I stumbled forward, then spun around to attack whoever had touched me. McGarrity threw up his hands.

“Easy, Vic. Shit.” He slapped my arm with the joke book. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I thought you’d come with Arou.”

“Nah, he was visiting his folks.” I nonchalantly crammed my hands into my pockets. Hard to punch someone with your mitts wrapped around your spare change.

“Oh, okay. That explains him bringing that dude with him. Probably some old friend of his from Manitoba,” Mario said, then wandered off to talk to Buttonwood. My gaze flitted over the men in attendance until it found Dan and his buddy. My first instinct was to waltz over and be a dick. Always go with your first instinct, I say.

I moseyed over, my eyes pinned to Dan’s back. He began moving left to right as I neared, telling me that he knew I was coming. Hell, he could probably feel my gaze burning through his clothes. Buzz-Head stopped talking when I grew closer, his thick black eyebrows tangling.

“Hey, Dan,” I tossed out as I stepped up to stand beside him. He smelled so good it made me weak in the knees. “Did we pick up a new player?”

“Victor.”

Man, talk about formal. I threw my lover a dark look. Buzz-Head was mumbling about finding the person with the sign-up sheet.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” I said to the stranger, my gaze glued on Dan. His jaw hardened and he reached out to grab Buzz-Head’s wrist.

“You don’t have to listen to anything this fucker says, Brooks,” Dan told the dude, who looked like he’d just swallowed a hedgehog. “You want something, Kalinski?”

Did I want something? Was he fucking with my head? Or was this a bit of repayment? Was Brooks there just to twist my jockstrap? If so, it was working brilliantly. I’d never been that close to jealously pummeling the living fuck out of someone. Hell, I’d never been jealous before that moment. Guess you had to care about someone who could rip out your heart before you could go all green-eyed monster.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do want something. I want you to stop touching this cocksucker like you just crawled out of his bed and talk to me.”

Dan and Brooks both gaped at me. The comment had come out in a soft, snarling manner, intended for us three and only us three to hear. Of course, Dan’s eyes—those gorgeous eyes of his—filled with anger.

“Go find Buttonwood. I think he has the sheet,” Dan told Brooks.

“Yeah, go find Buttonwood,” I snapped, my hands tightly fisted inside my pockets.

“You and me in the bathroom,” Dan spat through clenched teeth, then stormed off, his shoulders and neck locked. I followed on his heel.

We left the ice area rapidly. Amazing how fast his short legs could propel him. I guessed he was so pissed he couldn’t wait to find a men’s room. Dan exploded into a women’s restroom with me so close to his back it was a wonder I didn’t step on his heels. He whirled around like that vicious clawed X-Man he has tattooed on his biceps. The door was still drifting shut when he began unloading on me.

“Where the hell do you get off, Vic?” he asked, his nostrils flared and his hands flying wildly in the air. It was so nice just to hear his voice, even if he was bellowing.

“I get off because the last I knew I was your boyfriend. Or has that changed since you left? I make one little mistake and—”

“
Little?
Oh my God, little he says!” Dan’s voice bounced off the tiled walls. “You fucking idiot, that was not a
little
mistake. A little mistake is forgetting to put out the trash or pay a utility bill. That was the hugest, most rotten mistake any man could make. Not only did you cheat on me, you got the woman pregnant!”

“Fine, so it was a gargantuan mistake. It happened because I was drunk and missing the fuck out of you,” I yelled back. If he thought he could outshout a Kalinski, he was sorely mistaken.